To Pale Blue Eyes and Crooked Bow Ties
by pantomimicry
Summary: Set after the season five episode Han, CJ and Leo have a late night talk in his office. It's a sweet and honest, without- I think- forcing anything into their pre-existing relationship.


_It's no longer disappointment she feels, nor is it sadness. Talented men have lived and died without anyone ever knowing. But there is a face to his name. There is desperation in his eyes and soulfulness in his playing. His English is broken and he does not understand that defection means freedom for him and chaos for diplomacy. North Korea is a rogue state without any of the usual rakish charm._

* * *

Leo's office and its many doors are only a problem when she doesn't want to be noticed. Tonight he looks up as she passes, and she is looking too. "CJ," he says. She has already turned towards him, even stepped partially inside. He stands and closes one door, as she shuts the other.

"When do we stop giving them the benefit of the doubt?" she asks.

He sighs, leaning a hip against his desk. "I don't know. Not today."

"Or tomorrow, or next week?" She looks down at her dress; at her hands gripping the gauzy overlay so tightly it might tear. "He couldn't even take pictures at the sites. He doesn't carry his own wallet."

"We pick fights we can win."

"Since when," she says, "since MS?"

"Yeah, the Middle East, the Far East, domestic and abroad. Humanity loses on a global scale."

"I don't want to stop trying, Leo. I want it to be hard; that means we're doing it right. If we tug hard enough and long enough on these people's hands we'll all end up on the same side."

"And then what?"

"We talk."

He looks up at her, over the top of his glasses. They have the same blue eyes, honest and knowing. As a young man he doled his idealism out like it was candy. Now, he stamps it out all too quickly. "It doesn't always work out the way we want."

"Life?"

"Yeah."

She sways back and forth in an invisible wind, so close that he could touch her arm. "That's not good enough. The North Korean's walked away because they didn't like the size of our flags. Those aren't serious peace talks."

"You don't make foreign policy CJ." His tone is sharp, and ragged. "Democracy is a choice; it's our constitution that makes it a right."

"You tell me that young man had a choice, Leo? We give a damn when it scores us political points."

He sweeps his arms out indicating the binders and endless stacks of paper in the room. "Find me the money CJ and I'll take it to the President. Get me two-hundred and ninety congress men and sixty-seven senators. Get me a ten-point bump in polling numbers and the UN security council on board."

"Compassion-"

"-cost money, CJ."

She frowns at the rug. The office is so quiet for a moment she can hear the rhythmic tick of his watch. Thirty, forty ticks go by before Leo presses a piece of white linen into her hand. This isn't the place to cry, she knows, but when else will there be time?

"It never gets easier," she says.

"It gets less shocking." He stands next to her as if they are going to a ball, his tux and her dress a perfect allusion to present to the world, yet they are wearier than ever. His fingertips brush the skirt of her dress and they both watch as it swishes back into place.

"It's been six years and I'm still in awe at what it takes to run this country."

"We're the men and women," he smiles, "behind the curtain."

"Where are all the miracles?" she asks. She looks down at him, twisting his handkerchief between her fingers. He stops her gently with a hand on her wrist. "We're out of them."

He nods. "Yeah."

They stand close together, in the center of his office. She can see his slivery blonde hair, his crooked frown that creates wrinkles around his eyes. He can feel her hand shaking against his, see her dress expand and contract as she breathes.

"Everything's not okay, but it is." She voice is toneless, devoid of even the subtlest inflection.

She bends down quickly, before he can tense and hugs him. Her tall lanky frame fits badly against his compact one. It's a long way up for him and he is caught by surprise. Her head is buried in his shoulder and this embrace that shouldn't be so complicated is full of odd angles and desperate disillusion. He closes his eyes briefly but Leo can't possibly let time run away from him. When he kisses the top of her head he smells roses and cinnamon.

They stay presses together until CJ's breathing is even, and her breath has left a damp spot against his neck. His hand pressed between her bare shoulder blades is the first to drop away, then her hand resting on his collarbone, and last his arm around her waist. They move laboriously apart with just as much unwillingness as they came together.

"It's my job to wrangle you in," he says kindly.

"And I hate you for it."

"I'll live." He walks her to the door, and they both reach for the handle. "It's over, CJ," he says, more seriously now. He looks up at her, blue eyes discerning and stern.

"He's a routine cover up," she says. She shifts away from him, half opening the door. She looks at a point behind him; the night is clear, the moon a low crescent on the horizon.

He reaches towards her, but his hand hoovers near her shoulder. Instead he pushes his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "Tomorrow's a new day. Go home, get some rest." Leo puts his hand over hers and pulls the door fully open.

The hallway is full of flickering shadows and one tall oblong one. She stays in the doorway watching him. She wants to be angry, really angry, but there's nothing left to say and the young man from North Korea is long gone, back to the land of totalitaria. She reaches out and straightens his bowtie. He raises his eyebrow, pulling her wrist away. There's a moment in which both of there hands are cupped over his heart. But in this instance a steady heartbeat is not enough to convince her that his humanity still lives. She bends down, kissing his cheek hurriedly. He squeezes her hand painfully when she pulls back.

"It feels like we did the wrong thing."

"For him or this country?"

She shrugs, already halfway through the door. She waves the handkerchief over her shoulder, the first clear, bright sign on the grey ambiguity of their night.


End file.
